In Moby Dick, Ishmael tells of thousands of feckless landsmen who mob the waterfronts on Sundays and holidays, gawking at the watercraft and staring out to sea. Melville’s character said, “Call me Ishmael.” For 24 long months I could have said, “Call me Landsman.” More properly, Paula and I could have said, “Call us “Landsman and Landswoman!”
During those months we stalked virtually every dock and pier in five west coast counties of Florida, ogling sailboats, eyeballing rigging, glancing in surreptitious awe at skippers and crews, and telling anybody who would listen, “We’re gonna’ buy a boat.”
We attended four major boat shows, collected 18 1/2 pounds of brochures, and got on the mailing lists of 20 sailboat brokers, three dinghy manufacturers and a life raft dealer. We subscribed to three boating magazines, and bought deck shoes at a reduced price of $48.50 a pair, and stretchy boat shorts for only $34.50 a pair.
Wearing our new boat togs, we sauntered along the docks of the St. Petersburg Municipal Pier, the Venice Long Pier and the Naples City Docks, watching real live sailors come and go. Most of them obviously hadn’t read the deck shoe ads, because they were barefooted.
We inspected used boats from seven to 80 feet in length, and from $700 to $700,000 in price. We interviewed four score and ten boat owners. We found unholy scows whose owners were quite nice, and we came upon sparkling beauties whose owners were out-and-out thugs. We learned not only that we needed to find THE BOAT, but also that we had to find an owner or a broker with whom we could be comfortable. We discovered that when you buy a used boat, you buy a member of somebody’s family.
We drove to Punta Gorda to check out a 24-foot craft that was supposed to be in Bristol condition, only to discover that its four-year growth of barnacles outweighed the 600 pounds in its lead keel. In Bradenton we discovered a 25-footer that seemed to be IT, until we climbed aboard and were hit with an odor from a holding tank that had been leaking for months.
On a warm June day at a sturdy pier perched on the edge of Clearwater Bay, we discovered a 22-foot Catalina sloop with all the extra goodies we wanted. She sported a shiny blue hull and sparkling white decks, had a pop-top for extra headroom when overnighting, and was equipped with a swing keel that would take her through shallow waters. Her tiller glistened with new varnish and her teak was freshly bleached and oiled. Her equipment list filled two pages. She strained at her lines, begging to go cruising. And . . . her owners’ personalities matched the boat.
Mike and Renée Coffel, a childless couple in their 30s, exuded a quiet aura of nautical experience. The sun had dyed their skins olive, had bleached out Renée’s neatly bobbed hair, and had permanently rumpled Mike’s short ebony locks. Mike was an accountant; Renée taught school. Now you couldn’t distrust a couple like that, could you? Besides, they wore our kind of boat clothing.
We returned to the boat the next day with James and Dora Broderick, another retired couple, who had once owned a boat just like it.
“Jamie, you inspect the outside while I go over the inside,” said Dora, a tall blocky woman with a strident voice. “I’ll try the alcohol stove — don’t want it nearly burning up the boat like ours did.”
With white mustache twitching, James stamped back and forth on the pier, swinging a mask and snorkel from one pudgy hand and swim fins from the other. Leaving the Coffels and us on the pier, he clambered down to feel the exterior woodwork, note the clean, freshly greased outboard motor, and nod in approval at the U.S. Coast Guard-approved safety equipment.
After inspecting the lines, fittings, and anchor, he slipped off his boat shorts and shoes, and struggled out of a T-shirt, revealing a pair of swimming trunks so obsolete they went only halfway to his knees. Donning his mask and fins, he plopped into the water like an enormous round-bellied frog.
In due time he splashed to the surface next to the pier, pulled off his face mask, and craned his white-topped head up at the four of us, with eyes coming to rest on Renée. “She’s got a beautiful bottom,” he said.
I surveyed Renée’s tight-fitting stretch shorts and nodded in agreement.
“Yes,” Renée said. “We just had her hauled. How do you like the swing keel?”
“Swing keel looks fine too.” answered James.
I made a note to review nautical terminology.
James and Dora Broderick offered their conclusions: “The owners have saved you a lot of work by keeping it up. If you decide to buy it you’re welcome to go cruising with us.”
That evening over cocktails Paula blurted, “Well?”
“Well what?” I countered.
“Well, what are you going to do about the boat?”
“Dear . . . I don’t want to rush into things. . .”
Paula’s blue eyes flashed. She stood to her full 5 foot 1, trotted into the kitchen with nautically-bobbed hair bouncing, and noisily tossed fresh ice cubes into her glass. A second drink . . . the last time she had taken a second drink before dinner was when we almost didn’t buy the condo in which we now live. She returned and stood appraising me just like my Drill Instructor had done 32 years earlier when I hadn’t shaved.
“Don’t want to rush things?” she asked.
“We don’t have to buy this exact boat,” I explained. “There’s no harm in looking awhile longer.”
“Honey, for the last two years all you’ve talked about has been boats, boats, boats. ‘Gonna cruise to the Bahamas,’ you said, ‘maybe around the world.’ We’ve been searching for a beginner’s boat, and now we’ve found it, we can just stop looking.”
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